


Coterie

by AnansiAnansi



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Victorian, British Empire, British India, British Raj, Colonialism, F/F, Noble Clarke Griffin, Princess Lexa (The 100)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:56:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25329661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnansiAnansi/pseuds/AnansiAnansi
Summary: As a gift for her eighteenth year, Lady Elizabeth Clarke Griffin has but one request: to visit her father in India, where he has served his Queen and country under the British Raj for most of his life. His stories of Hindustan have coloured her imagination for much of her life, and this is her chance to experience the country that has held sway on her for years. Little does she know that her voyage will leave her changed forever, not in the least because of her meeting with a certain Princess Alexandra, heiress apparent to the princely state of Trikpur, a proudly fierce kingdom at odds with its history, and seeking to keep its independence from the British Raj.
Relationships: Abby Griffin/Jake Griffin, Clarke Griffin/Lexa
Comments: 40
Kudos: 57





	Coterie

The gentle back and forth of the ship as it rolled its way steadily onward to its destination across the ocean was the same, as it had been for the last four months. On board the _HMS Viceroy,_ its mixed cargo of cloth, iron machinery and people were arranged in the famed hierarchy that gave Britain its clout across the world; crates and inanimates at the very bottom, with its sleeping passengers organized across the various decks by class. The lower two were already bustling, busying themselves with the daily rigmarole of the breakfast service. In the kitchens, cooks and busboys scurried back and forth as eggs were boiled, poached and tossed in just the perfectly preferred ways, fruit and bread sliced, kippers and sardines fried, all ready in time for the first course, which was to be underway shortly after daybreak. In the cabins on the lowest deck, Niylah tucked her hair into her bonnet, pinning it firmly in place. Smoothing out the front of her white cotton apron, she stifled a yawn as she made her way to the uppermost deck. 

Unlike the rest of the ship, it was quiet here, with the sounds of the ship travelling through the waves becoming mere swishes, as though the act of cutting through hundreds of tons of water was but a minor inconvenience. She envied these rooms their solitude, but not the boredom that she imagined came with it. What her board lacked in comfort, it certainly made up for in conviviality. Only last night had she danced for hours with the dashing deckhand from Edinburgh, with both of them knowing this was a hello and a goodbye at once; her fate was sealed with what was to come, for the foreseeable future at the very least. Perhaps if it was meant to be, it would be; there was no other way to consider it. 

Stopping by the last cabin towards the right, she rapped her knuckles on the door gently, once, twice, three times, as was her custom. “Lady Griffin?” Expecting no answer as always, she knocked once more, before pushing down the iron handle as she had done every day for the last four months. Instead, the door was wrenched and flung open from the inside, and she found herself face to fresh face with the nearly fully dressed and wild-eyed Lady Elizabeth Clarke Griffin. “Niylah! Good morning, your timing is enviable. Enter, please.” 

Niylah stepped in quickly, as she shut the door behind her. “Please milady, I must ask you to address me as Miss Tavenor, as is your mother’s preference and convention.” 

With an imperious turn of her golden head, her employer eyed her with amusement. “And I must tell you to stop addressing me as milady. I’m not yet one hundred, Niylah.” Waving a hand as she took her place on the stool in front of the mirror, she continued. “So, it will be Miss Clarke, please, at least and as such while we are alone.”

Niylah curtsied silently, her face flushing. “As you wish, mil..Miss Clarke.” The words were new on her tongue, as was the unfamiliar convention that was imposed on her. Silently, she picked up the enamelled hairbrush on the dresser, and began combing through Clarke’s hair, who was having more trouble than usual sitting still. “Today shall be the day, Niylah. Are you not excited? The shores of Bombay are mere hours away.”

Niylah smiled in spite of herself; Clarke’s enthusiasm had a tendency to be infectious. “Indeed, Miss Clarke. What a dream has come true for you. And such a generous gift from your father. You must miss him so.”

Clarke nodded; for the majority of her life, the interactions with her father had consisted of letters exchanged by ships much like the one she was on this very moment, but that had only served to heighten their closeness. She was fond of her mother, but she knew in her heart that it was her father she was most amenable to. So, on his last voyage home to England, two years past, Clarke had asked but one thing in honour of her turning of eighteen years. “Let _us_ come to _you_ next time, Papa. I want to walk the faraway shores that you deign to adore so much. Would a journey to India not be a fitting entry into the unknown world of adults, after which I shall settle myself into a planned life of marital duty?” Sir Jacob, thoroughly amused by his only child, could scarce refuse such an earnest request; his service of his Queen and country had kept his family away for many years; with Clarke a grown woman now, he could permit himself the indulgence of the company of his wife and child for a time in India. He was eager for them to know what it was that had swept him away for so long; his sacrifices would not go unseen any longer.

Her morning toilet complete, Clarke hurried towards the dining room, stopping only at the front table by the two figures seated at it. “Captain Fitzroy, Mother, good morning to you both.” She curtsied briefly, before taking a seat beside her mother. Lady Abigail Griffin, pausing from her conversation with the Captain, turned to her daughter. “Clarke, you are quite radiant this morning. Might it be because we are due to dock shortly?”

Clarke waited until she had taken a sip of her Lady Grey tea, freshly poured and steaming to perfection, as it had always been. “Indeed. It is a fortuitous day, and I cannot contain my excitement much longer.” Setting her cup down, she turned to the pink-faced, whiskered man sweating in his navy uniform before her. “Captain, may I be so forward as to inquire about the time of our impending arrival?”

The Captain nodded enthusiastically. “Indeed, Lady Elizabeth, you may.” Clarke fought to maintain her composed expression; she much preferred her middle name, but she would let this pass; the Captain had been hospitable and kind throughout their long voyage, and in a short while, it was unlikely they would cross paths again. She waited expectantly as he consulted his pocket watch. “I dare say we are about two hours from shore, and a further half hour until your feet shall touch the earth of Bombay.” Captain Fitzroy slurped the last of his tea. “I must take your leave, my ladies, to prepare for arrival. A captain’s work is never finished.” Standing up, he bowed stiffly, and marched out of the dining room. Turning to her mother, Clarke asked, “Will Papa greet us in Bombay?”

Lady Abigail nodded, daintily breaking off a small portion of her crumpet. “Yes. His telegram yesterday informed me as so. And we set off at once for the Provincial Post. I’m afraid it will be a rather trying day for us both.” With a flick of her wrist, she set about fanning herself, in an attempt to move the stillness of the hot ocean air surrounding them. “I fear the Indian climate shall be a test of our constitutions.” 

Clarke chose to forego commentary; her mother’s constitution was not her own. For her part, she was prepared to face it all; this land that had absorbed her imagination for the majority of her life was finally to be laid before her eyes; there could scarcely be anything more intriguing or enticing. 

“Has Niylah gathered your belongings?” Lady Abigail’s question intruded on her thoughts.

“Yes. We will be present for the final role call at the ordained time.” Through the ship’s large windows, Clarke spied the hazy shores in the distance. “Mother, may I be excused? I would like to watch us approach.” 

Lady Abigail had already occupied herself with her diary of events to found on shore. “Certainly, my dear. Goodbye for now.”

Resting against the wood of the deck, Clarke raised a hand to shield her eyes from the sun, already strong in its light. Far and away, yet approaching rapidly, were the outlines of dusty hills. Within a quarter of an hour, Clarke spied the masts of other steamships and cargo vessels, resting in the harbour as languid water beasts. She watched the shore eagerly, until Niylah’s voice summoned her for final role calls. Distracted, she spoke her name when prompted, but then turned to the chorus of voices rising from the harbour. She could hear men shouting to one another, some in English, some in a language foreign to her ears. This would be Hindustani, which her father spoke fluently. The staccato musicality of it caught her attention; perhaps she would be able to school herself in it, too. A grinding on the port and starboard sides signalled that the ship was approaching its final station. A sudden lurch, accompanied by ropes flung in the wind only to be caught on shore were the final steps in securing the _HMS Viceroy_ to land. Clarke turned to her mother, her eyes alight with excitement. “Are we really here? Is this truly India?”

Lady Abigail’s nod was accompanied with a wave to shore. “So it seems. And there is your father.” Clarke’s arms moved in time to a wild rhythm of her own making. 

True to Captain Fitzroy’s word, they had planted their first steps on land shortly after; Clarke, seeing her father, rushed to him. “Papa!” Sir Jacob’s browned face shone with a joy unlike any she had seen before. “Clarke, my darling; welcome to Hindustan!” His embrace was brief, but warm. Turning to his wife, he docked his hat, kissing her hand, a new gentleness in his eyes. “Lady Abigail.” Clarke watched her mother blush and return his soft smile. 

Sir Jacob led the way past the chaos of the remaining passengers out towards the city. Clarke followed, at once fascinated. Everywhere, she heard the cacophony of noises, competing for a voice - the harsh cawing of crows, the barking of dogs, the whistles and horns of ships, and above it all, the loud, cheery laughs of the sailors and workers interspersed with short bursts of speech. At the end of the harbour, a tall black carriage with four resplendent matching horses awaited them, flanked by six sepoys in khaki suits and bayonets on horseback. Niylah stood by the side, unsure of how to conduct herself, choosing to curtsy deeply as they approached. “Niylah, I’m glad you are well. I trust your passage was safe and sound?” 

Her eyes firmly upon the ground, Niylah nodded. “Indeed, Sir Jacob. My thanks for your graciousness; I found it most pleasant.” Clarke tilted her head to one side; she was aware of Niylah’s discomfort in the heat of the bottom cabins; she would have to bring up a better fare for her with her father on the return to England.

A sepoy hurried to swing the door to the carriage open. “My ladies Griffin, a sincerest welcome to Hindustan; may you find it everything you wish it to be.” 

Lady Abigail thanked him, stepping into the carriage with some care. Clarke paused a moment. “How may I address you?”

He bowed deeply. “My name is Ramchand. It is a pleasure to be at your service, Lady Griffin. Please do not hesitate to call on me when needed.” Clarke repeated the name with care, willing her tongue to move with the foreign syllables. “That’s an excellent attempt, my lady.” She was certain he humoured her.

Settling back into the carriage, Clarke was silent for a long while, content to listen to her mother and father converse softly. When Sir Jacob spied her watching the city intently, he asked, “Clarke, what would you like to acquaint yourself with foremost?”

Clarke turned to him, her eyes lit with wonder. “Everything, Papa. I would like to know all of it.”

Sir Jacob laughed heartily. “Well my dear, I was expecting that, of course. Once you are situated, would your mother and you consider accompanying me to the state of Trikpur? I have Raj business to discuss with the Maharajah.” 

Clarke’s eyes widened, as she clapped her hands together. “That would be wonderful! I think I shall like it very much!”

Sir Jacob drew his pipe from his pocket, tapping it against the side of the carriage once, before lighting it with care; the smoke filtered out from the open windows, disappearing into the morning air. “I should think so. The Princess of Trikpur is of the same age as you. I believe she would make a worthy companion to introduce you to the ways of Hindustan.”

As the carriage's steady clip-clop led them out of Bombay, Clarke found her thoughts drawn towards her imminent meeting with the Princess; she rather hoped they would see eye to eye and grow a friendship.

**Author's Note:**

> So I was doing some research for an original short story, and this idea sprung from it. I've wanted to experiment with historical fiction anyway. So why not try with Clarke and Lexa, in British India? This is probably going to be a short fic (I wanted it to be a one-shot), but we shall see.
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments; oh the places my mind takes me!


End file.
